


It Lurks Beneath Our Feet

by scarletlettersfly



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Character Study, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Gen, Hisoka's Past, Teen Pregnancy, Underage Rape/Non-con, Young Hisoka - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22011607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletlettersfly/pseuds/scarletlettersfly
Summary: The bitter pill fizzles lazily at the tip of his tongue, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste at the back of his mouth that curls like wisps of smoke inside of him, sinking to rot at the bottom of his thoughts. For of all his madness, insanity and constant urge to invert the world and turn it on his head, even demons once existed as children.orFive times Hisoka is seen as a monster, and the one time he isn't.
Kudos: 23





	It Lurks Beneath Our Feet

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a concept on tumblr of Hisoka once existing as a baby and developed it into something more than just a oneshot. Enjoy.

Shira isn’t sure what to make of the little Morrow boy couple houses down, who currently sat at the entrance, kicking his stumpy legs and laughing at the puffs of dirt clouds they conjure. She supposes he looks like all the other brats born out of the red light district; malnourished, dirty and disgustingly small, dressed in tatters and covered in bruises. They scurry around in packs, looking not unlike sewer rats in the day, scavenging the alleyways for whatever scraps they can gather to survive. When night falls and the stars rise through the dense evening heat, they huddle behind whatever narrow streets they can to avoid roaming customers who’s taste can’t be satisfied by their actual workers. She closes her eyes, unconsciously clasping the thin ribbon around her throat as the feeling of bile rose steadily in her chest, heaving as she struggles to keep it down until her laundry is at least finish.

There was nothing special about this whore house, other than the fact that it was perhaps the cheapest one out of the whole district, and even perhaps even the whole of glam gas land. They were also one of the biggest whore houses in numbers, with multitudes of workers several times larger than others, although the rundown and cramped make-shift shacks stacked higgly-piggly around the cracked ground doesn’t necessarily translate that. She likes to think it’s part of an intricate design rather than poor planning, the slanted shadows giving the inhabitants of the area small, safe zones to hide, the many decrepit buildings blending into each other just as easily as it’s many inhabitants. It’s a maze just to navigate the winding streets, something it’s people used to their advantage to escape unwanted men.

The feeling subsides and she sees the toddler has hopped off his seat on the floor, and crouch down to fiddle with the wild flowers growing around the front door instead. His stare is unnervingly intense, amber eyes as rare as the unusual focus he had spread across his face as he clumsily picked the petals all off the daisy with a pale hand. She remembers the look he gave her when she went to his house once to demand his bitch of a mother return the scarf she stole, how he skulked her from the corner of that filthy house, silent and hungry for that unimaginable, that even in her anger she couldn’t shake off the feeling that a predator was hunting her the whole time. It was a ridiculous notion, she later summarized in the comforts of her own home. The child was barely old enough to walk, balancing on the cusp of babyhood and toddlerhood as he stumbled around the dusty ground, looking for stimulation. He looked like a typical slum brat, gaunt and gross, the remnants of baby fat clinging to his pale cheeks dissolving faster than expected. She could try to deny it, but Shira knew, deep down, that the child was very different from all the other children running wild. 

It was unlucky she assumes, draping a long night shirt over her clothes line, staring at the fallen water droplets that were easily soaked up by the ground. All of them were. Circumstances and fate lead to their situation, Shira would be the first to admit that some very stupid choices led her to her profession, but even she was still human enough to admit the pity she felt for the brats who were forced into this circumstance, forced to fight for what little food they were given and avoid grasping hands that desired unthinkable things. A disembodied voice calls out, and she sees the Morrow boy rise unsteadily and wobble back in to his house, flowers clasped tightly in his hand. Not even a moment later, she hears angry shouts and broken glass, the toddler emerges, flowers gone and sporting a nice hand print on his cheek. He goes back to the patch of daisies, firmly digging his fingers into the ground and rubbing the dirt onto his wounded face, not once does she hear even a sob from him. Though come to think of it, she hasn’t heard the two year old cry in a very long time. She shakes her head, just another thing to add to the list of reasons of what was wrong with the Morrow child.

It was just bad luck little Hisoka was born here. Even worse luck that he was born to a whore who couldn’t even keep herself sober for more than an hour a day. But Shira empathizes with the young mother, their work was demeaning and no one wants to reminded about being a mother at sixteen. 

Her laundry done, she picks up the worn bucket and prepares to head into her home. She eyes the boy curled into a tight ball of threadbare shirt and bones, stuffing tiny handfuls of dirt into his mouth, eyes boring holes into hers. His bottom lip is split, mouth slightly agape and dripping with blood as he stares at her, unblinking. She wonders if it’s cruel to hope that he dies soon, for his exotic eyes, pale skin and pretty face will attract all the wrong kinds attention, and she’s sick of seeing broken husks of children everywhere she goes. 

He rises to his feet, dirt smudging his hands and mouth, and begins chewing on his thumb. He’s unbelievably small, even for children born here, barely coming up to her mid thigh, all protruding ribs and knobby knees. The expression he sports underneath the tuft of light colored hair is unreadable, the harsh late afternoon sun casting shadows across his face, making him look years older than he actually is. His calm look was something she didn’t expect after getting being smacked hard enough to knock whatever baby teeth he had out. Shira swears somewhere deep down her heart twinges, and in a moment of weakness, she purposefully drops a piece of candy on the ground and walks right back to her shack.

She doesn’t see Hisoka until a couple days later, and when she does, he is toddling across the street, smarting a new scar across his neck and still blowing pink bubbles with the bungee gum she gave him. 


End file.
